The Black Jackals (9 page)

It was close to 1 o'clock in the afternoon on the 21st when they finally reached the suburbs of Arras. The town had suffered badly from shelling and air attack, and many of the roadside buildings had been hit. Some were still smoking, others had had their walls ripped off to reveal domestic interiors that looked like stage sets, thought Lamb, with everything perfectly in place, except the floor. Even pictures and clocks remained hanging on the wall-papered walls. In one half-demolished house a wrought-iron bedstead and mattress hung suspended on a jagged section of wooden flooring, its sheets flung back as if the owner had just leapt from his bed.

They marched into Arras, attempting as usual to look as soldierly as possible despite their appearance. But the atmosphere was very different here to that of Tournai. As they filtered into the town Lamb saw a column of British infantry on a road to the left advancing to converge with them. As they grew closer he caught sight of their eyes and saw in them utter despair similar to what he had seen in the faces of the refugees. He walked across to an officer, a young lieutenant of roughly his own age, who still had something of the military about him. ‘I say. Who are you? Where have you come from?'

The young man smiled. ‘Where we've come from is not somewhere you want to go. We're Royal Sussex. They caught us up at Albert. Bloody Panzers. Went through us like a knife through butter. Christ, it was bloody murder. What I want to know is where were our tanks and our artillery? We had nothing. Nothing. And where were the bloody French? And the Raff. They just tore us to pieces. We didn't have a chance.'

Lamb could see that the man was about to burst into tears, and he steadied him with a hand on his arm. ‘All right, old chap. You're safe now. This is Arras.'

From the ranks came an awful yell: ‘No, no. Oh God, no. Not that.'

The officer turned in alarm as a sergeant comforted the man, and then he looked back to Lamb. ‘One of my men. Saw his best mate run over by a tank, poor bugger. Crushed everything below his chest and pushed his brains out through his head. That's what they do if they hit you.'

Lamb recoiled in horror. ‘Good God. Poor sod.'

‘Nearly drove him mad. Then he got shot in the face himself. Blinded. Now he keeps seeing his mate.'

They had fallen into step with the Sussex now and were walking together into the centre of the town, into the old square that in the Great War had been used as a casualty clearing station. Lamb recognised it from his father's postcards and saw that it had been put to the same use again now as men lay on stretchers and on blankets across its cobbles. In the far corner Lamb noticed a group of officers who appeared to be giving directions.

Lamb turned to Bennett. ‘Halt the men here, Sarnt. They can stand easy and take a break. Find some char if you can. There's bound to be a wagon somewhere.'

He said goodbye to the Sussex officer and pointed towards the command group: ‘I'm off over there. Looks like someone's trying to make order out of this chaos.'

As Bennett gave the order to rest, Lamb strode across the Grand Place, taking care to make his way around the wounded, whose number seemed to be growing by the minute. He approached one of the officers, who had walked away from the central group and was writing notes in a pad – a captain in battledress wearing the insignia of the Northumbrian Fusiliers. He saluted. ‘Excuse me, sir. Lieutenant Lamb, North Kents.' The officer acknowledged him and Lamb continued: ‘The thing is, I'm trying to find my unit.'

The man looked at him with weary eyes and smiled, shaking his head. ‘Isn't everyone? 'Fraid it's no use, old chap. You're all adrift, more or less. Where have you come from? Sorry – Clarke, motorcycle platoon, Northumbrian Fusiliers.'

‘We've just marched here from Tournai, sir, but we lost contact with the battalion back at Wavre.'

The man nodded. ‘Then likely as not they'll be further north. You're miles off track. Useless to try and find them. Not now at least. Anyway, I'm sure that we can use you here. We're going to attack.'

‘Attack?' He looked around at the scene of desolation, and the hundreds of wounded men, some it seemed close to death. ‘Might I ask with what, sir?'

The captain smiled. ‘Well you may. Two battalions of infantry, apparently, and seventy-five tanks. Oh, and a few armoured cars and anti-tank guns and us lot. We're going in two columns.'

‘Is that it?'

The officer ignored his lack of etiquette. ‘'Fraid it is. We were supposed to be two divisions, but something got a bit muddled and we're all there is. Still, got to try something, haven't we?'

Lamb pointed across to the staff officers who were conferring over a map. ‘Can I ask who that is, sir?'

‘General Martel, and that's General Franklyn. That's why the attacking force is called Frankforce. I'm attached to him directly, which explains why I know so much. I should attach whatever men you've got to that unit over there, if I were you. 8th Durham Light Infantry. They're attached to the right column. They'll find a use for you. We need every man who can fire a rifle.'

Lamb paused for a moment, unsure as to whether he should argue that he was already on a mission under orders from the colonel. It did not take him too long however, to realise that this was neither the time nor the place for such action. He would have to accept the captain's orders and join in the attack. He smiled.

‘What exactly are we attacking, sir?'

‘Well, no one's quite sure. Certainly not the generals there. We know that there's a Panzer division out there, and as likely as not there's an SS unit behind them. That's how they operated in Poland. But we'll need to take some prisoners to find out who they are.'

Lamb stared at him, incredulous. ‘Sorry, sir. Do I understand that we're attacking two divisions with barely a brigade? That's suicide.'

‘Perhaps. But those our our orders, Lieutenant. Gort's promised the French that we would mount an offensive and I'm very much afraid that we're it. We're all there is to spare. H Hour is 1400. Good luck.'

Lamb returned to his men who, as predicted, with the ever-present resourcefulness of the British Tommy to sniff out a brew, had managed to find themselves some tea.

Bennett handed Lamb a tin mug. ‘Tea, sir?'

‘Thank you, Sarnt.'

Lamb took a welcome swig and spoke. ‘Well, we're moving off.'

‘Sir?'

‘We're going to attack.'

Bennett looked at him. ‘Attack, sir? Just us, sir?'

‘No, Sarnt. We're attaching to the Durham Light Infantry. Going in behind a tank attack. Could be a bit messy.'

‘I see, sir. Shall I tell the lads.'

‘No, Sarnt. I think perhaps I'd better do that.'

He turned to the men, who had separated into smaller groups, his three sections and the odds and sods by themselves. As usual Valentine was standing alone, smoking his Turkish cigarette with an air of detachment.

Lamb addressed the little group. ‘Now, we've been given new orders, men. We're going into an attack with the Durham Light Infantry. There's little hope, I'm afraid, of trying to find the battalion now. Seems they're probably much further north. So I've decided it's best to stick with our friends here. We'll go in behind a tank attack on the German lines to the south, and with any luck we might push them back and give everyone a bit of breathing space. Then I'll decide what we should do next. The DLI can use every man they can get.' He turned to the odds and sods. ‘That applies to you too. But if you want to try and find your own units I quite understand. That's your duty. But as far as I'm concerned you'd be more than welcome to come with us and I'd love to have you.'

There was some murmuring and nodding among the men. Lamb saw Mitchell shake his head and then Stanton and Blake turn on him aggressively and mutter something inaudible. Eventually Mitchell shrugged and McKracken nodded and smiled. A few of them lit fresh cigarettes as the Scots sergeant turned to Lamb.

‘We're with you, sir. Proud to be.'

Lamb turned to Bennett. ‘Right, Sarnt, we'd better be ready to move. Check weapons and ammo. I dare say you'll be able to draw fresh rounds from the DLI if you need them. H Hour is 1400. Best not be late for the party.'

For all their readiness, though, it was shortly after 3 o'clock by Lamb's watch that the assault began. The two columns approached the enemy from Neuville and Vimy, at a distance of about a kilometre from one another. The left column was led by the Matilda tanks of the 4th Royal Tank Regiment and the right by the 7th Royal Tank Regiment, while the infantry moved in their wake, using a tactic that had been devised during the Great War by generals who had learned their craft as cavalrymen. Lamb had been across to talk to the CO of a company of the DLI who had eagerly accepted the extra hands. His platoon had attached itself to the company, moving up with the right column, and were able to operate again as a platoon. He was pleased too that the odds and sods had chosen to stay with him, apparently having built up a respect for their new temporary officer.

They pushed on now through the outskirts of the town and over the open ground of wide farmland, an additional fourth platoon in the extreme left-hand company of the DLI, and Lamb noticed that the Matildas had crushed everything in their path – trees, carts, cars and of course men. He marvelled at the sheer power of the machines but was horribly aware that the German armour was stronger and could if given the chance do much worse damage.

It seemed to him that everywhere the ground was littered with German corpses and smashed anti-tank guns, and he could see the men taking heart from it. He turned to Smart: ‘Now they're paying for it. We've broken through, Smart. This is it.'

To their right he saw a column of Germans, weaponless and with their hands on their heads, being led back by men of the DLI. The platoon and the rest of the company cheered.

Mays spoke. ‘They're on the run, sir.'

‘Looks like it, Corporal. Let's hope we keep it up.'

They were moving faster now in the wake of the tanks. They entered a village and continued south west. Lamb looked at a signpost. ‘Warlus 5 km'. That was about three miles, he reckoned. They had moved off the major roads now and were crossing open fields along a single-lane track.

Corporal Mays was close by. ‘Blimey, sir. They've upped sticks and scarpered.'

It was true. He realised that they hadn't been fired on by a German since the advance had begun. Shells had come in to their right and left but there was no evidence of infantry resistance.

Moving on, they began to pass the corpses of men in different uniforms. The green flashes of the Wehrmacht were replaced by black facings with a white skull and crossbones and two lightning flashes. Lamb knew who the dead men were. SS. The elite of Hitler's army. Ruthless Nazis, better trained and equipped than any other. But even they had been broken by the new British tanks, thought Lamb. Perhaps they did have a chance after all.

He turned to Valentine, who had appeared at his side. ‘Look, Corporal. We're even beating the SS, Hitler's elite troops.'

Valentine smiled and nodded. ‘Very good, sir, that is good. We do seem to be doing rather well.' There was something in the tone of his words, however, almost a sense of sarcasm, that told Lamb that they were not really meant.

Bennett was with him. ‘Look, sir. These blokes in black. They're like the Guards, aren't they, sir? I mean, if we're killing them we can't be doing bad.'

‘No, Sarnt, you're right. I don't think we're doing so badly at all. They seem to be breaking.'

Lamb and his men had moved into open formation, spread out across the track and into the fields on either side, in line with number 2 platoon of the DLI. He looked closely at the village ahead, watching for any sign of movement, the slightest glint of light on steel, which would give away the position of an enemy sniper.

They walked forward steadily through fields dappled with sunshine. The crops grew high, and it was an effort pushing one's boots through the tightly packed stalks. Lamb noticed the large numbers of bright red poppies. There were other flowers too, vivid blue cornflowers among them, and while there were no birds Lamb saw a rabbit run from him away through the waving wheat, towards the village.

They continued, waiting for the first shot from the enemy position. Brigade intelligence had reported that while many of the German troops had fallen back, at least one company, if not more, had remained here in Warlus. The tanks had done their job. Now it was the infantry's turn. Clear the village, they had been told. And that meant street by street, house by house. A bloody business, thought Lamb. It seemed that the population had gone. At least he could detect no sign of civilian life, save for the debris that littered the streets.

From their rear the 3-inch mortars of the DLI company began to throw shells over their heads and into the houses and yards ahead. Lamb and his men could hear nothing but the whine of the incoming rounds, the explosions and the more distant rumble of heavier shells as the tanks and guns that had detached to their flanks continued to fire. They were within two hundred yards of the first buildings now. Lamb could see the houses quite clearly, red pantiled, brick and lime-washed walls, muddied with the dirt of two centuries. The village was dominated by a tall church tower and he knew that if the Germans were still here that would be where they would have positioned their observers and any heavy weapons they might have. He turned to Bennett. ‘Watch that tower, Sarnt. It's perfect for a machine-gun post.'

He had hardly spoken when there was a flash from the belfry, and instants later bullets ploughed up the earth to their left and right. One of them hit Potter square in the chest, killing him instantly; another took three fingers of the left hand of one of the runners, and he fell to the ground, moaning.